You Want
by me malum
Summary: A promise made on the battlefield, and an idea never tested. Dark drabbles, fem!England/France.
1. Promise

Dark drabble inspired by "You Want" by Porcelain and the Tramps. Set anywhere in the Medieval period.

**Warnings**-genben!England, dark, language.

**Disclaimer**- I _wish_.

* * *

Her eyes shone with the same light that reflected off the flat of her blade.

"Tell me," she panted, as worn out by the fight as he was, "Do you still think I'm better off dead?"

Francis smirked at her. His sword shrieked as he pushed down on hers until they were locked hilt to hilt. The sparks highlighted the madness on the sharp lines of his face.

"Words spoken in ignorance, _ma petite_," he gasped, pressing as close to her as the blades interlocked between them would allow. "Who else can make me feel like this?"

Her smile was dark and promising. "If you defeat me today, I'll let you fuck me where I fall."

Her opponent inhaled deeply at the thought. "Anyone would think you were asking to lose," he replied, "Because I promise you, an offer like that will make me fight all the harder."

Her smile only grew. Alice twisted suddenly and hit out with her free hand, striking him on the chin before he could react.

"I'll make you work for the victory," she promised in return. She settled into a defensive stance, waiting for his next move.

He obliged by swinging at her torso and turning the expected block into an attempt on her hamstrings. She retaliated by aiming for his sword arm, and scoring a shallow cut on the back of his hand.

Francis stepped back and licked off the blood seeping from his wound.

They regarded each other in the light of the setting sun. Francis had many shallow cuts all over his body; some of them only slashes in his clothing but most sporting bloodstains. Alice had less wounds overall, but her worry was the deep cut on the back of her shoulder that was still bleeding sluggishly even an hour later.

"If you win," she reiterated, "You can fuck me where I fall."

He recognised the glint in her eyes as an invitation. "And if I lose?" he inquired mildly, as though asking about the weather.

Alice smiled at him, bloody and beautiful. "If you are to lose, Francis?" she paused dramatically, prolonging the moment. "If you lose, my darling, you'll be _better off_ dead."

They saluted each other with their swords, bloody and beautiful and _mad_, backlit by the dying sun on the horizon.


	2. Idea

Second drabble set in the same universe- more of the, 'started ages ago, now I'm cleaning up my pieces and putting somewhat acceptable endings on them to post the damn things' collection. So same **warnings **as the first- dark, fem!England, English spelling. Oh, and slightly insane!England. I seem to have a thing for that at the moment.

**Disclaimer_-_**Heh, I wish.

Enjoi.

* * *

She whipped the pistol from her holster and aimed before Francis could even blink. He froze- _stupid mistake to make in the middle of a battle, he was no novice; why did he freeze_- but Alice had never tried to shoot him before. Sword fights were par the course, but gunpowder was a relatively new presence on the field, and even though he had his own pistol at his hip, he hadn't considered using it on her.

Sword fights were the usual fare, and though they'd never shied from attempting a killing blow, it was unspoken that they probably wouldn't be able to kill each other. Be it skill, luck, the intervention of their generals- although they'd tried _many_ times, no fatal blow had ever connected with its victim, none even leaving a glancing wound to show for itself.

Pistols were new territory. For the first time in centuries, Francis felt trepidation- the pre-cursor to fear- as he stared at her and her naked pistol. One twitch, one deliberate squeeze of the trigger mechanism-

-and for all they knew, it might- _she_ might- finally, actually kill him. It was untested, just what would be required to make him die; after all, he _was_ still alive.

The pistol roared and Francis was surprised as the shot missed him. He'd expected her to be as expert a marksman as she was a swordsman, despite the newness of the technology.

Then he heard the ragged cry from behind. He spun, turning his back to her-_ stupid mistake, giving her the chance to stick her blade in it_ - and saw the soldier fall, not three yards away from him. A knife glinted as it tumbled to the ground next to the body.

The soldier was wearing red.

This didn't-

Francis couldn't think; he turned back to Alice with confusion painted onto every inch of him. She was smiling, a dark, self-satisfied expression that he never would have thought to see on her face as she killed one of her own soldiers.

"Alice- _pourquoi.._?" He found his voice, though coherence was still beyond him. "You... _mon dieu, Angleterre_, he was yours!"

"He was going to kill you." _Her_ voice was as steady as her hand when she'd taken the shot. "Or well. Try to. Would a knife to the heart kill you, Francis?" Her eyes had the glint that said she wanted to test her theory, and his confused mind couldn't work out why she would then take exception to someone experimenting _for_ her.

"You killed your soldier over me- _why_, Alice?" His guard was non-existent, sword hanging limply from his right hand.

"It's no less than what I did for Charles," she stated, so matter of fact that he wanted to shake her, just to see if she'd teetered over the fine edge into insanity. It was the only explanation, surely.

"But your royalty- you love them, you _fight_ for them- why, for me..?"

She was ignoring him now; her attention was on the distant forces, both in a state of disorganised retreat. "Another stalemate," was all she said, before looking directly at him again. Her face was carefully blank now as she re-sheathed her blade.

"You've always been worth it to fight, Francis," she said tonelessly. "It's just an interesting question, to me- that is, would you be worth fighting _for_ as well?"

She walked past him, left arm brushing his. Like he'd done earlier, she left her back wide open as she paused and spoke her last words for this encounter. "But until that can be answered, you will fight with _me_, and me only. Not a well-meaning Englishman merely out for glory. And that same Englishman will not be the one to stop this."

Toneless as she sounded, there was the slightest inflection on _this_ that left France even more confused than before. They fought; they fucked when they weren't fighting- they didn't like each other and they certainly didn't _love_ each other.

Yet she walked away, her back practically a target in her red, untailored uniform- _she never would have done that as little as one century ago, made it so easy for me_- and he knew he couldn't consider doing anything about it. She'd given him the idea- _take out the pistol; would it be enough to kill her?_- and it would remain just that. An idea, never tested.

Six centuries ago, given the chance, he'd have slit the brat's throat in her sleep and not lost any of his. And now, he'd laid in the same bed as her, slept with a knife under his pillow (she'd slept beside him wearing a bracelet made of leather and string. He'd seen her use it to garrotte someone, once) and-

_Mon dieu_, he trusted her.

He didn't like her, but he trusted her. And since she'd raised the point... she trusted him too. As dark and bloody as their shared history was, something had changed between them and they... they _trusted_ each other. Unspoken, unacknowledged trust.

Then she made him _realise_ it, and changed everything.

Except- he trusted her. He turned and watched her join up with her soldiers. As though she felt his gaze, she glanced back and nodded once, a mark of respect.

He raised his sword to the sky, then sheathed it in one smooth motion. He made his way to his own men, confused as hell, but inexplicably smiling.

* * *

Yay for insane!England. Why do I do this to my country..?


End file.
